


You Better Run

by reges_criniti



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Era, Drabble, Gen, Ratings: G
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 20:30:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5942041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reges_criniti/pseuds/reges_criniti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leave all your love and you're longing behind. You can't carry it with you if you want to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Better Run

**Author's Note:**

> A coda (of sorts) to the post-Gates of Avalon drabble I wrote, Overflow. I found myself going off on this kind of "ode to running" tangent while writing the beginnings of that fic, and this kinda evolved in rambling, loving fits and starts from there.

He used to enjoy running. Ever since he was little, his mother often fondly recalled, he would always choose to run instead of walk, zipping and zooming from one place to the next. He used chase sheep from field to field and come home sweaty and glowing, a dull penny clutched tight in his tiny hand, bestowed upon him by Farmer Thomas for his help in the pastures. When the men would saddle their horses and sling quivers full of arrows across their backs, Merlin would follow the hunting party out in to the woods and tromp through the brush, loud and reckless, matching Mr. Tavett's hunting dogs stride for stride.

As he grew older, when it was deemed time for him to outgrow such follies, he would kick off his shoes and take off for hours at a time, his laugher carried away by the wind. He would run until the village lane ran out, run through the wheat fields and verdant grazing leas; run through the woods that marked the village's boundaries, dappled sunlight throwing shadows on him like some exotic, wild animal.

It was in these moments, these long, leisurely jogs with his muscles hot and his breath drawing deep, that the itch of his magic- it's simmering, incessant call that he trained himself to shove aside- would fade and he could lose himself in the disciplined repetition of arms pumping, legs flying. In this, his mind could clear, become nothing more than a gaping, empty chasm and he could be singingly, peacefully free.

In these glorious moments, his body and his magic alined and alighted, intertwining and melding like a well oiled machine, working and moving and existing as one complete whole. With every labored exhale, his magic flowed as soft and as gentle as a cool breeze on a hot summer day, clearing the way, moving bracken and roots and cow patties so his path was always unobstructed and straight and steady. With sure and even footfalls, his long legs ate up the ground beneath him, the rhythmic slap of his feet upon the earth barely louder than a whisper, gobbled up by the hungry ground below.

But it got twisted somehow, this love and joy and freedom found in running, corrupted by this place he's still struggling to call home. Because inside the walls of Camelot people don't run, they _flee._

As fresh as a baby colt in this big walled city, he found a moment blessedly free of duties to take to the streets, to give his legs the stretch and burn and work they craved. The cobbles were rough under his feet, the streets still cramped and crowded despite the hour and the day's fading light. Shopkeepers jeered him as he ran past, one eye on their wares and another on this stranger to their city, convinced he was no good, must be looking for trouble running amok like that. Sentries stopped him at every turn, demanding where he was going, where he'd been, demanding he 'turn out your pockets if you don't want to end up in the stocks'. His brief stint ended in embarrassment, held up at the city gates, bumbling without shoes or purpose, his breath fast and face red.He was turned away, the guards refusing admittance to the wide and open lands beyond the city limits to where he could run and fly and be free. 

The knights are the only others who run in this city, he noted with a dull sort of interest, if you could even call it that. Less a stride and more some small, bouncing pitter-patter they call a jog and maintain for a laughably short amount of time. Arthur, it seems, believes in steel and force and strength above all else. Activities done without a sword or staff or weapon in hand are frivolous and deemed a waste of time. Most days, he lets his knights skip their run all together.

Merlin snuck out to their training grounds once in a minor fit of rebellion and a small desire to reunite with his old life. Before the sun and the rest of the castle was awake, the sky more purple than blue, he stood in the middle of the dirt track, electric, body thrumming-  _run_. He slipped off his shoes, rolled his ankles, arched his back, and set off at a brisk clip. Round and round he went, enjoying the pull of his muscles, taking in deep lungfuls of early morning air. For a moment he was blissfully at peace. 

But the dirt loop was too small and mind-numbingly boring. He counted turn after turn, lap after lap, the repetition more constrictive than liberating and soon packed it in, barely a sheen of sweat across his brow, retiring to his chambers dejected and solemn. He hadn't attempted to run again.

Still, there were days when missed the way he used to wake up with sore knees and shin splints and aching thighs. He felt lose and lazy, the slight muscles he had built and nurtured now turning soft, rounding out, struggling under the weight of all of Arthur's mail. Now there were days when he would ascend a flight or two of stairs and frown when he found his heart pounding in his throat, his lungs burning, demanding great heaping gulps of air.

He would never admit it out loud, barely let himself dwell on it for even a moment or two, but there was a part of him that savored his race through the woods, chasing after Arthur and Sophia and Aulfric, running because Arthur's life was on the line. It had filled parts of him that were turning dark, depleted.   

So two days after saving his prince the from the Sidhe, two days of nursing sore muscles, of staring at the distant wood and feeling a tug for that liberated freedom he finds in running, Merlin leaves the castle while the sun is still throwing a riot of color in to the new day's sky. It's easier now that he knows the city, knows it's rules both codified and inherent, to jog through the streets without drawing suspicion and turning many heads. He nods to the guards posted at the city gate, rattles the wooden planks of the drawbridge, and takes off like an arrow notched and fired from a bow in to the welcoming arms of the boundless countryside. 

_Run, Merlin._

With grass beneath his feet, his mind scrolls blank, idly thinking about the herbs he'll have to pick for Gaius later, what Arthur will want for breakfast, running on autopilot until it doesn't; until it coughs, sputters, takes a sharp turn towards the parts of Merlin's mind he keeps locked tight, calling up the nightmares that have taken over his dreams. 

His arms become heavy with the phantom weight of Arthur's near-drowned body locked in a white knuckled embrace. Each footfall becomes a painful reminder of everything that was on the line, of everything he stood to lose- still stands too. Once peaceful, now his tread means danger, means panic, means bile rising and burning at his throat while frantically trying to keep the crawling, growing, suffocating fear at bay.

_Faster, Merlin._

It becomes a different run then as something shifts, splinters in Merlin. His steady, even gait is forgotten, transformed and replaced by the echo of a run muddled by blind panic, haunts of the last time he ran through this wood nipping at his heels. When anxiety, not exhaustion constricted his chest and left him breathless. When dread made him falter and trip, made him sloppy and weak. He bursts through the tree line, trying and failing to outrun these new demons that reach for him, tear away at him, break him down brick by brick. Open field surrounding him once more, heart pounding strong and unwieldy in his chest, in his throat, in his ears, he keeps on trying to run, run, run away.

_Save Arthur._

He pulls up when the city gates come in to view again, slows to a walk and feels his muscles seize and relax in equal turns as he calls his frenzied breathing under control, tries to dislodge the phantoms of fear that have snaked and barbed his heart. 

As he makes his way through the maze of city streets, he's thankful for all that time spent running through the countryside. For the years spent running with hounds, for spooking sheep and sending them amok in their fields. For the feel of grass and dirt beneath his feet, for crisp country air filling his lung, fortifying his bones, his very being.For the way it's shaped his body, given his long, awkward limbs a purpose and a subtle kind of grace. It's yet another strength hidden within him, nestled alongside his magic like bosom buddies.

But it's become muddled and messy now, confused with darker, more sinister pursuits. Each time he takes off at a trot feels like the beginning of a battle, of an endless fight, and unending flight for his life, for Arthur's, for Camelot's very existence. Running is as suffocating as it is liberating now, and his heart aches when he realizes he's not sure that he'll ever really enjoy it again.


End file.
